Critical Incidents - Lucie Whitehouse

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that struck them as unusual. We’re also appealing to anyone who may have seen Josh Legge or believe they know his whereabouts. Mr Legge was last seen late yesterday evening, shortly before the fire started, but not since then, and we’re particularly anxious to talk to him.’

      A photograph appeared onscreen. Robin recognized it: Boxing Day two years ago, she’d been there when Kath took it. Josh was standing by the sitting-room fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand, wearing the chunky grey jumper Rin had given him for Christmas and the saggy old dad jeans she mocked him for. Kath had caught him at the end of a laugh, eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth turned up, emphasizing a dimple in his right cheek. Robin had seen the expression a thousand times – Josh laughed easily, he was such a soft target – and yet it seemed transfigured now, the half-closed eyes not twinkling, fanned by smile lines, but narrowed to calculate, look askance, the smile not open but wry. Sly. As if in front of the Christmas fire, his family around him, he was envisaging the future, raising a toast.

      ‘We’re advising anyone who sees Mr Legge not to approach him but to dial 999 or contact the incident room directly on this number.’

      Robin had felt a flare of frustration: were West Midlands Police up to this? They were presenting him as their suspect but what evidence did they have? They couldn’t have any: he hadn’t done it. All that talk of other lines of enquiry – as far as she could see, it was nothing but lip service. There was nothing new in the report, not a single bit of information she hadn’t heard from Thomas and Patel hours ago.

      Was he SIO, this Webster? If they had a DI leading, they were treating it like a simple domestic murder, a self-solver, and it was hardly that, was it, hardly the husband turning himself in at the nick, clutching the carving knife. Was he competent? He’d done all right on camera, but that was no gauge. With his broad face and wide-spaced brown eyes, the impression he gave was bovine: Aberdeen Angus in a green wax jacket.

      DS Thomas had been the opposite. In the dark of the bottom bunk now, Robin felt her face go hot. You were in the job yourself, weren’t you? She hadn’t been ready for the shame. I’m not this person, she’d wanted to say as she’d sat in that godawful armchair, D-list celeb on a wedding throne; I’m a good detective – really good. This is short-term, a cock-up; I’d never buy an aqua three-piece suite!

      And Samir. Their guv’nor. What would he tell them?

      Lennie shifted, turning her face towards the pillow, and Robin peeled her arm from round her stomach, feeling the sweat between their bodies. The window was open and the garden glittered with frost but the cold air reached a foot into the room then stopped, repelled by the central heating. Even the wall behind her was warm.

      Corinna was dead, Josh missing. Her best friends, and there was nothing she could do. She was a DCI in the Met, not even borough CID but an operational command unit, and there was nothing she could do. Whatever her skills, however well she knew the victims, she was powerless: she had to leave it to West Midlands Police. And even then, said another voice, sly, how thorough did she really want them to be?

       Chapter Five

      She’d done her best but Christine was too quick. In the time it had taken Robin to get down the path and into the car, her mother had somehow lost the apron, gained a pair of shoes, a jacket and – could it be? – some lipstick and materialized at Maggie’s window.

      Maggie lowered the glass. ‘Hiya, love.’ She reached her hand out and took Christine’s, perma-tan, rings and forest-green nails meeting pale, moisturized, French-manicured. Robin knew Maggie took pride in subverting expectation but still, after a lifetime, she was completely bamboozled by the friendship between the two of them. It was real friendship, decades long: Maggie was woven all through Robin’s childhood memories, not only there at Christmas drinks and summer barbecues but the person who stayed to do the washing-up and ended up sitting in the garden until the houses across the fence went dark and the only light in the sky was pollution. They went out together too, dinner and drinks, any film Dennis baulked at. Not that there were many, he was a sucker for a rom-com – his favourite film was The Wedding Singer – but Maggie was Christine’s partner for the dramas, anything emotionally gruelling. About monthly, when she’d been at school, Robin remembered, her mother would get back from their outings after eleven, relaxed – for her – and pink with Chardonnay. What the hell did they find to talk about?

      ‘How are you all doing this morning?’

      Christine’s breath made clouds. It was eight o’clock but the lawn behind her showed no sign of thawing. ‘I don’t think anyone slept.’

      ‘You’ve got to take it steady, all of you. This, it’s … beyond.’

      ‘That’s what I wanted to say to you, Mags. I don’t think Robin should be working today – I told her what you said yesterday about taking the day off. She needs to—’

      ‘I’m right here,’ said Robin. ‘Aged thirty-five.’

      ‘Everyone handles things differently, Chris.’

      ‘I know but you know what she’s like. If she gets it into her head—’

      ‘For Christ’s sake.’

      Maggie gave Robin a look then turned back to the window. ‘I’ll look after her, darl, and I’ll drop her back later on. You take care.’ She fired up the car, raising the window as they pulled off. For the full circuit of Dunnington Road, Robin said nothing. As they waited for a break in the traffic on Stratford Road, the indicator ticked like a stopwatch.

      ‘She’s worried about you, that’s all.’

      The lights changed and they inched towards the junction, past the little branch library, nearer the deep bland lawn of South and City College on the corner. The inexorable miles of white sky overhead. Robin felt a surge of panic. ‘She’s trying to take control, like she always does. Do I have to ask her now if I’m allowed to go to work?’ A flashback to one of their old stand-up fights, her mother yelling after her as she ran up the stairs, My house, my rules.

      ‘If you get some sleep tonight, we can take your car tomorrow. Would that make you feel better?’

      ‘Make me feel less like I’m eight years old.’ Robin huffed. ‘Sorry. I don’t want to drag you into this. But I need to work, that’s what she doesn’t understand. What am I going to do otherwise, sit around there trying to cry?’ Wondering if the past had caught up with them.

      Maggie took a breath, as if she were about to say something, then stopped. A moment later, ‘Anything new since yesterday?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘It was on the radio on the way over. Heart, just local. Same thing, looking for Josh, nothing we don’t already know.’ She reached for the radio. ‘Want to see if we can catch it again?’

      As Robin shook her head, her phone buzzed in her pocket, a text. Gid? Eight o’clock, a few minutes after – he could just have come on shift. A small leap of hope: perhaps there’d been movement on Hinton. But no, when she took out the phone, the screen said ‘Adrian’. It was mildly startling, the name already an anachronism.

       Len just told me about Corinna. Devastated for you. Here if you need me. A

      For god’s sake. She couldn’t stop them being in touch – she didn’t want to, they loved each other, and it was good for Len to have a male figure in her life – but of course it meant Adrian would hear about everything that happened to them. Was he going to use this to reopen communication, even try to make her reconsider? She’d thought at least that was over and done with. She locked the phone and put it back in her pocket – she’d deal with it later.

      ‘Where are we going?’ she said.

      ‘Val Woodson’s, via coffee. I can’t be messing with that Nescafé this morning.’

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